The Threshold
by dollinkdollink
Summary: "She chooses Bond because he knows the same emptiness, the same ache. She cannot hope to heal him—it's far too late for that, for the both of them—but maybe they can help each other to take some pleasure in what is left."


Written for the bondkink meme on LJ. The prompt was: "M loves her husband, but there's a kink she's into that he isn't. So she turns to a very willing 007, since she knows he's up for anything." Ended up a little less kinky, a little more "my head!canon"y, I hope that's alright.

Many thanks to PerfidiousMadmen for the beta. :)

* * *

He feels so good inside of her, so warm and safe and familiar, thrusting in and out, in and out, in and out, in a rhythm perfected over decades. His hands are buried in her short white hair—not gripping, just resting … he'd never think to really pull—and his breath is warm against her ear with whispers of love and devotion, gasping out her name.

And she hates herself, because it isn't enough.

She tightens her legs around him, rakes her nails down his back, murmurs soft encouragements, and prays he doesn't notice that for all it's Moira Graves's body lying beneath him, it's M's mind still inside—unable to give over control to her civilian counterpart.

_He's so close now, just a few thrusts more, she knows that moan …._

He does notice, and halts, still inside of her. She curses him for knowing her so well.

"Moira? Are you sure you're really up to this? We can stop, if you want. I know it's been a long day …."

He's looking at her so expectantly, awaiting her answer, and—Christ!—why does it always have to be her that makes the tough decisions?

"No. I've already told you, I want this." Her husband, like her agents, knows she makes up her mind with an iron will—firm and unchangeable.

"Is there … is there anything I can do for you?" They've been married for nearly half a century, but he still blushes when he talks about sex. She used to find it endearing—so different from the kind of men she met in her line of work—but she's far too tired for all of that now.

She's about to beg him to finish off without her, to let them try again some other night, when she isn't so bloody exhausted … but something stops her. He does love her—and she him—and she knows how very badly he wants to please her. Perhaps, she thinks, she's been wrong to keep that half of herself—the 'M' half—so hidden from him. In trying to protect him, perhaps she really has been hurting them.

Perhaps he can help.

"Yes." She takes pride in steadiness of her voice. "I'd like you to hold me down. I'd like you to fuck me hard. I want to wake up sore tomorrow." She wants—after a day spent sanctioning heinous acts of violence, doling out unquestionable orders, all but toppling regimes with a few simple words—to be reminded what it feels like not to be in control, to have to fight for dominance, to feel that rush of adrenaline as fear transforms into lust in a safe environment. She craves it.

She knows by the way his eyes go wide that she's made a rash misjudgment, but reluctantly, he holds her hands above her head and thrusts into her again, his hips moving in a pace that is still not yet enough to bruise.

It isn't long before he breaks within her with a strangled gasp, and her body manages a small shudder of pleasure.

Their 'I love you's are genuine and well-meant, but neither of them misses the way the other can't quite meet their eyes.

* * *

He quite surprises her the next morning over breakfast.

"I've been giving it thought," he says, as if discussing where to holiday this summer, "and it seems that there's a simple solution for all of this."

"Oh?" She butters a piece of toast, and pretends she doesn't know what 'all of this' means.

"I love you."

"I know that."

"And I only want for you to be happy." She isn't sure where he's going with this, but the open devotion on his face makes her want to weep with love. "You haven't been … satisfied, not really, not for a very long time."

"Oh, Richard, that's not—"

He holds up a hand to stop her, uncharacteristically assertive. Whatever he's about to say, he must firmly believe in it.

"Yes, it is. We're a good team, Moira, in almost everything, but there are some things that you want—that you need—that I simply cannot give you."

He really is a good man … a good husband, a good father, and—above all—terribly practical.

"What are you saying, Richard?"

"What I'm saying is that… I want you to have what you need, whatever you need. Even if you have to get it from somebody else."

She knows that he means it, every word of it.

When she kisses him, mouth still sweet from the strawberry jam, she thinks it might be possible that she has fallen even more in love with him.

* * *

Despite her husband's kind insistence, it is nearly six months before she approaches Bond.

She doesn't choose him because of his beauty, or his charm, or his reputation as a lover—not that she's immune to any of those things. She doesn't even do it because she's fond of him. 'Sentimental', she'd once been accused, and while it had been meant as an insult, she is—despite everything—much too proud of him to want to deny it.

She certainly doesn't choose him because he's the safest option. This could destroy everything they've both worked for, and no one knows it better than her.

No, she chooses Bond because he knows the same emptiness, the same ache. He carries it with him and always will, just as she has done from her own 00 days. The adrenaline is addicting—the sex and the fear and the danger—and there's little else in the world that can ever compare. You begin to need it, more and more, in increasingly extreme ways, as your threshold rises and you start to become numb to all the old thrills.

He can drive faster cars and drink harder booze, take bigger risks, and fuck even deadlier women, but he'll run out of road eventually. He almost has already; she can see it in the way the light has gone out of his eyes. She cannot hope to heal him—it's far too late for that, for the both of them—but maybe they can help each other to take some pleasure in what is left.

In less than three minutes after she makes her offer, he has her up against her office desk. She had expected to let him think it over and arrange a rendezvous at a later date, but his eyes were hungry as he watched her speak, his mouth desperate on hers when he finally kissed her, hard enough to bruise. He hitches up her skirt and ruts against her like some magnificent beast, her silk knickers and the fine fabric of his trousers providing a delicious friction—confirming what she always expected: that he wears nothing else beneath them.

The whole thing is insane, even more so than she had anticipated: it is the middle of the day, and any number of things might require her attention, and for all that she thought she had planned this out, she had forgotten to tell him to lock the damn door. Anyone can walk in and find her favorite agent dry humping her like a horny teenager, but she finds she doesn't give a damn. She can't remember the last time she felt this alive, and from the tender kisses he bestows upon her face and neck—so at odds with the frantic pace of his hips—she knows he feels the same way.

She has to bite his shoulder to keep from screaming with the surprising force of her orgasm. He's quick to follow, and she can feel the wet warmth of his seed as it spills inside his trousers.

"Thank you," he pants against her hair as they cling to each other in the aftermath, both a little weak and unsteady. "Thank you, thank you, thank you …" She doesn't know which of them should be more grateful.

She never does find out how he deals with the rather obvious stain on his front, but when she returns to her office later after a meeting with Q Branch, she finds a key to his flat waiting on her desk.

* * *

The text reads the same as so many before it. "19:00. M."

At seven o'clock on the dot, she lets herself into his flat and finds him waiting there for her, barefoot and wearing a form fitting t-shirt and dark jeans.

"Can I get you a drink?" he asks, as he helps her to remove her coat. Sex isn't the only thing they share within these walls … sometimes they lie on the couch together with a stiff drink, and she rests her head against his strong chest and bitches about her day. It is a great relief to have someone she can talk to without censoring the classified details. It borders dangerously on the intimate, she knows. But, she also knows that it is something he needs, that he gains as much pleasure from her trust in him as he does from the sex.

"Not tonight," she answers, kicking off her heels. "My daughter is here with her children. I shall need to be home soon."

He tries to imagine Mrs. Moira Graves at home with her family, making small talk with her daughter and cooing at the grandchildren. It is a difficult image to rectify with the wicked woman standing before him, unzipping his jeans, and stroking him into hardness. He knows why she texted him. M must be placated, or Moira will not be able to know peace.

"Well, then. Let's not waste time."

It isn't long before he's fully erect, and he backs her up against the edge of his dining room table, removing the rest of her clothes. Then he's on his knees in front of her with his pretty face buried between her legs, clever tongue flicking her clit in that way he knows she likes, fingers twisting and thrusting inside of her. Blue eyes lock with blue, and her fingers tug hard on his hair as she comes, a sharp cry of "James!" piercing the air.

He's got a devilish smile on his lips as he moves back up to kiss her, letting her taste herself on him.

"So … what will it be tonight, ma'am?"

She strokes his cheek fondly, and he leans into her touch. "You've been such a good boy, James. You decide."

There's so much he wants to do with her … he'd like to tie her up; bite his way across her body, leaving his mark; bend her over this very table and spank her hard, taking his time to appreciate the way her pale skin blooms red with each strike; make love to her, slowly, all the while telling her what a filthy, filthy girl she is, with admiration thick in his voice.

But they haven't the time for that right now.

Instead, he takes both of her wrists in his hand, and presses her down on the table. With his free hand, he guides his cock into her wet heat, and then holds tightly to her hip as he starts to fuck her. She wraps her legs around his waist, urging him deeper, and the heavy mahogany table rocks with the strength of his thrusts. She's all but whimpering, held hostage on that perfect border between pain and pleasure. Tomorrow she'll have bruises wherever he has touched her. She eagerly awaits them, knows she'll press her fingertips into each one when she's home alone, the sensation heightening the pleasure of her morning wank.

"Moira," he moans breathlessly, drawing out each letter. "So close. Gonna come so hard. That's what you wanted, isn't it? That's why you texted me, why you left to come over. You wanted me to fill you up, and send you home still leaking. Something to remind you who you really are, through all that tiresome domesticity."

She gasps at the thought, and he releases her hands, dropping his to her clit as she claws desperately at his back through the thin t-shirt. He bends his head to kiss her, muffling her shout against his lips as she comes. The feel of her clenching around him is his undoing. She isn't sure she'll ever get used to the way he almost howls with his pleasure, as if he's in the midst of the most exquisite agony.

She does not want to move, but she can't deny that his body is heavy on top of her, and parts of her are already starting to lock up. She takes her time getting dressed, though, and the silence between them is companionable.

"Thank you," she says, as he sees her to the door.

"The pleasure's all mine," he insists, kissing her knuckles, and they both know it's true.

They meet here broken, and—while they do not emerge fixed—they do depart a bit more accepting of who they really are. It is all they can ever hope for.

* * *

Richard Graves watches his wife and daughter swap childhood memories at the dining room table, and he counts himself incredibly lucky. He knows where his wife had disappeared to—it is clear from the way she squirms in her seat every now and again, and she's always been honest with him about the whole affair—and even two years into their arrangement, he's surprised that he feels no jealousy. If anything, he feels grateful to this mystery man for returning his wife to him whole in a way he isn't sure she ever has been.

He can only hope that, wherever he is, his wife's lover knows the same peace.

* * *

THE END.


End file.
